Shiver
by Fogs of Gray
Summary: Even these startling revelations were composed, containing a chilled tone. It terrified him, the slow deterioration that accompanied these thoughts. It was a vulnerability he hadn't felt in years.


I'm pretty sure I don't believe Macon's health had faltered over the progression of Beautiful Creatures. However, I love writing this kind of stuff, and it is accepted generally, so I'm publishing. :)

Spoilers: Beautiful Creatures?

Disclaimer: Not mine.

* * *

He had noticed it creeping up on him. He had felt it start to grow, his strength waning. It scared him. It was a faint fluttering ebb of his thoughts. His scotch glass slipped in his loosening grasp. He caught himself before it shattered on the floor. He threw it back to stop the spiraling thoughts.

He would have forgotten the incident if it wasn't constantly on his mind, on the back burner, nagging at his every whim. Logically, it was only an isolated incident. In his mind, that was the end of it. However, he knew he

should check himself if it came again. He hadn't told anyone. It would only ruin the situation more, if that were possible. He would hide it as long as possible to maintain any piece of reality. Luckily, it didn't hit him again for a few months.

* * *

This time, he was writing a letter to a good friend. It was nothing remarkable, a simple response to an even simpler inquiry. His mind had already wandered to the occupation of his niece, and whether she was happy. The thought was abruptly cut off with the scrawling scrabble of pen against fine paper. A fine trembling had started in his hand. The pen was dropped immediately, the hand clutched to his chest as though injured. He closed his eyes and focused on breathing.

* * *

Separate. Completely individual events that couldn't have coincided, even in his mind. They couldn't be put to merit. It was a slip. It was a passing thought. He avidly moved passed them as though they were any other obstacle. Exclusive to their own situations. He didn't allow himself to entertain the thought he was deteriorating. He couldn't.

He was about to Travel back to Ravenwood. The air was balmy, and he vividly remembered the young smile spreading across his niece's face. She was still a child. He was musing with the thought she always would be a child in his eyes when he said his goodbyes. "I'm coming to Ravenwood in a few days, Uncle M."

"That you are, Lena."

"Are you excited?" Her voice echoed slightly. His vision darkened for a brief moment.

"Ecstatic." His voice was softly detached, even to his judgement. He felt it fluttering again. "Happy Birthday, Lena." He Traveled before it unhinged him.

He collapsed to the floor, leaning his head against the wall. _Damn it. Damn it. Damn it._ A splitting headache took home in him. A pulsing echoed in his thoughts, to what he had thought was a heartbeat. He focused on breathing, although even that act sent remnants of tearing pain through his straining body. When it finally cooperated, his eyes were struggling. A figure had appeared in the dimly lit room, one he well knew. Boo. The dog made its way over to him before collapsing, his master's fingers threaded through his fur as though he was the only real thing.

* * *

He blamed it on distance. He hadn't fed the night before, and the distance from Barbados to Ravenwood must have been too much on his already diminished health. A simple explanation to his inquiry. He Traveled again with little problems, if any. It was a fluke. A complete coincidence. He ran with that until he started hearing. Not that he was deaf, but he was alone. The house was empty. No one would occupy his home for another month, in the least. His thoughts were elsewhere, as they had been for the last hour.

A laugh rang through the room. Soft and piercing. He recognized it. He swore he could have known who that was in a crowd. It was impossible. She was married. She had a child. No matter the reasons, he knew he heard her. If only for a brief moment.

* * *

He pinned that down to an active imagination. He never really had a grasp on one, but it was an explanation he seized like a drowning man. He could cope with that. He could move on and be productive with a reason such as that. The flinching in the back of his mind eventually ceased. He assumed he had out too much stock into coincidences. It had happened once before. It was bound to happen again. He sat in front of a warm fire, a glass of scotch in hand. A book sat untouched on the table beside him. Alone. He was still alone. Individual. He was contemplating on closing his eyes when a sharp pain snatched at him. It ebbed as quickly as it came. Wary, he glanced around the room. Still alone. He swallowed another shot of alcohol. _Absurd. You're imagining things again._ Another quick agony blazed up his frame, clutching at his breath and setting nerves afire. The scotch fell to the floor. His hands tightened on the arms of the chair. Instead of fading as the rest had, this manifested itself in his core. A pain so bright he assumed this was it. He'd be ashes by the time anyone found him. His fingers loosened at the realization. Resignation. He had assumed his eyes were bloodshot. He was sure he looked like hell. He occupied the hours between seconds by counting. _Inhale._ A rise. _Exhale. _A small reprise. _One. Inhale. _A struggle. _Exhale. _Damn it. _Two. Inhale._ He leaned his head back. The fire broke apart with an almost silent motion, as did the pain.

* * *

Leah caught him the next time. He was discussing an issue over with her when he suddenly gripped the table. She made no comment the first few times. When his eyes began reflecting the fear of a trapped creature, when his shoulders tensed in a way she knew wasn't comfortable, when feet started to stumble, she did. "Macon..." He shook his head once.

"It's nothing, Leah." The façade was fully drawn into place again.

"Like hell." She stood from her place on the floor. She noticed the thin shivering in his hand. "Macon, what's wrong?" His eyes hardened. "Your hand."

"I need to feed soon."

"How long?" She flinched mentally from the tone her voice adopter. It was fierce and protective.

"Five years." Whatever she had expected, it wasn't that. Her gaze lost its flame.

"You've known for five years, and you didn't think of telling me?"

"It wouldn't have benefitted a thing, Leah. My role is unchanged, personal health be damned."

"I could have helped you. We could have found a cure, a treatment, *something*-"

"Leah, it's alright. This settled another problem. Surely you remember?"

She hesitated to answer. "The curse. Someone Lena loves needs to die to reverse the effects. Macon, you don't mean to-"

"That's exactly what I'm doing. I'm expected to live a little less than a decade. Even that is a shot in the dark. Three years until Lena has to choose, correct?" She didn't answer. "Right. I'll have my will in order by then."

"I won't let you." A faint chuckle died in his throat.

"I appreciate your concern." She shook her head. "This guarantees the safety of the rest of them. I'm only one man, Leah. I don't have the time to regret my choices." She swore she could see him breaking in front of her.

* * *

He felt it coming, dogging at his senses. His normally sharp eyes would grow foggy. His brilliant hearing dulled, only to replace reality with fiction. He heard her. In his head. He couldn't help it, but he heard her, clear as his own thoughts. He was asked questions from Leah, to which he hardly answered fervently.

It terrified him. This was the end, and he was horrified about what was to come. He wasn't going to a good place after this, not in the slightest. However, he put that thought to rest before it startled him into a profound panic. His mind was quiet. He imagined this was how it began, the end. It was a beautiful, horrible paradox. He was waiting on a quiet rush of breath and a soul breaking cry. It was everything he wanted, and everything he hated. It was giving them a future and killing his. It was his desperate attempt at holding on to them, and his even more hysterical letting go of his safety. It was slander. It was truth. It was a threat, a lifeline, and a coldness that chilled his soul. It was the unravelling of a sweater and the building of a much grander tapestry. Even these startling revelations were composed, containing a chilled tone. And damn him if it didn't make him tremble.


End file.
